


Disdain (and what becomes of it)

by soraflye (flitterfly5)



Category: Arashi (Band)
Genre: M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 02:05:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6451183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flitterfly5/pseuds/soraflye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Jun saw Sakurai Sho was at the gym, right after yoga class, and the first thing he noticed about him was that he wore not one but two hooded parkas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disdain (and what becomes of it)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer:This is a work of fiction. I am not associated with J&A.

The first time Jun saw Sakurai Sho was at the gym, right after yoga class. He was just rolling up his mat when he noticed a hooded shadow skulking by the water cooler, and to the sensitive eyes of Matsumoto Jun, the most remarkable thing about it was not that it had cheap metal chains dangling from its neck or that it was squeezing its poor water bottle so tight the plastic had turned into an hourglass; no, the first thing Matsumoto Jun noticed about Sakurai Sho was that he wore not one, but _two_ hooded parkas.  
  
And that was on _top_ of a sideways placed baseball cap.  
  
_Hoodlum_ , he thought, shaking his head. _Bet he’s tattooed and listens to rap music. Uncensored._  
  
_Urgh._ He grimaced as he caught the flash of a gold piercing on the guy’s left ear.  
  
Not that there was anything inherently wrong with tacky body piercings, _per se_ , Jun quickly corrected himself. You had to be politically appropriate these days, after all, and even good-for-nothing gangsters had their right to freedom of expression. Jun was a progressive guy; he understood that not everyone could possess the good taste to do yoga to Norah Jones and get weekly cleanses at the spa.  
  
Still.  
  
He couldn’t help a slight wrinkle in his nose as he slung his mat across one toned (and moisturized and organically deodorized) shoulder. His world would be a _lot_ better if it didn’t include eyesores like this wannabe gangster.  
  
Jun tilted his chin a little higher as he walked past the cooler, and looked primly straight ahead when the hooded guy turned, a half empty water bottle re-inflating dumbly in his hand.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
The second time Jun saw Sakurai Sho was at the Ueno skatepark, which he had only gone to that day because indie singer-songwriter Ninomiya Kazunari was doing an open show there (Jun liked a bit of hipster angst once every now and then; it was _art_ , after all). The skater punks had all gone home after sunset, and there, under a single streetlamp, Nino was standing with his guitar singing a ballad. It was one of his earlier songs, which Jun of course remembered because he had been following Nino since way before he became “popular” (he lifted his head just a bit higher when he saw the couple beside him who were clearly noobs and had no clue what album this came from). Jun was just thinking about how he was going to convey his nostalgia in a tweet to his fan group when he saw _him_.  
  
That hoodlum from last week. Mr. Double Parkas. Gangster wannabe.  
  
(Though, to be fair, and not that it made Jun any less disdainful, the guy had switched his parkas out for a rugged black T-shirt and lost the gangster bling around his neck this time.)  
  
Their eyes met across the last wavering notes, and instantaneously, each caught the recognition in the other’s eyes. The guy’s mouth fell slack in a sudden “oh!” and in the lamplight that glanced off that hidden earring, Jun could just imagine a hint of pinkness beginning to creep up those smooth, pale, tantalizingly curved—wait , _what?_  
  
Matsumoto Jun clapped a hand to his mouth in horror as he realized what road his thoughts had just been heading down.  
  
_No way. Not a fucking chance._  
  
His lips pursed themselves into a precariously thin line. If he could just pretend that he hadn’t seen anything now—here, he was going to just pull out his phone and start composing that tweet. What was it he wanted to say again? Oh right, something about Nino’s song, nostalgia, galaxies in people’s eyes—  
  
“Hello.”  
  
There was a light tug on his sleeve. Damn, his _Valentino_ sleeve.  
  
“What?” He wheeled around, snapping.  
  
A pair of bewildered eyes stared back at him. Bewildered eyes framed by dark hair and straight lashes and the most slanting, masculine eyebrows Jun had ever seen (aside from his own, of course). In fact (Jun found himself pondering) the entire face was rather handsomely masculine, with the sharp nose and decisive forehead and that chiseled—yes _chiseled_ —jaw that moved and rippled with the movement of those lips… which were moving, yes, moving _, crap_ , moving… as in _talking—_  
  
“—and just thought I’d introduce myself. The name’s Sho. Sakurai Sho.”  
  
“Right.” Jun was so caught up in his thoughts he barely managed to catch that last part. “Nice to meet you.”  
  
He didn’t like how much he was huffing; it wasn’t like him at all to be so _un_ suave out in public. A thickly veined hand touched him on the elbow.  
  
“You haven’t told me your name.” Sakurai Sho was smiling. A very lopsided, insolent smile, Jun thought. “Maybe you’re shy. But maybe you’d also like to grab a drink with me, say, tomorrow around eight?”  
  
The hoodlum’s hand was now touching his with a soft laugh. Jun’s brain promptly unfogged itself with a jolt.  
  
“Oh, get over yourself,” he managed to snap back, smoothing the creases in his Valentino irritably. “Like you’re even _close_ to being my type.”  
  
He then walked away, cursing Ninomiya for choosing such a _tasteless_ venue for a live show.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The third time Jun met Sakurai Sho, he was at a much anticipated goukon in the posh levels of a Roppongi bar. With him was his friend Aiba, who was kind of loud and crazy and impossible to control in public, but also kind of naughty and fun and really, really, hot. Like, sizzling oil-on-skin hot. So hot that if Jun had been less vigilant about his own appearance, he might even have been _jealous_ of Aiba.  
  
_Yeah, right._ He snorted at the thought. Aiba was a hot mess who could capture the attention of an entire crowd, but would sooner be mixing chemicals of mass destruction than putting that impressive package in his boxers to good use where it counted.  
  
In other words, _perfect wingman._  
  
Jun grinned. He was _so_ taking one of these metrosexual chic artistes home with him tonight.  
  
“Hear, hear! Here’s to pandas and koalas and never running out of words in shiritori!” The hot mess was already on his third toast of the night, and the atmosphere was only getting livelier. A hearty cheer broke out from the small group around him, and he turned to flash Jun a smug little grin. “My friend Jun here,” he continued, gesturing with his wine glass like a giddy auctioneer. “—is a talented photographer, master chef, has an impeccable collection of vintage records and requires only one glass of pinot noir to turn into putty in your hands. Or mouth,” he added almost thoughtfully. “Or whatever you prefer, I suppose. Jun’s flexible. And looking for love, true enduring love. So what are you waiting for? Any takers? Leave your number in his jar!”  
  
Deftly, Aiba squeezed out of his crowd, hugging a glass jar and avoiding the disappointed looks from his potential suitors. He then hopped right up to Jun and held the generously filled jar out proudly.  
  
Swearing, Jun pushed it back into his idiot friend’s chest. He had seriously misjudged.  
  
_Worst. Wingman. Ever._  
  
He threw Aiba the dirtiest glare he could muster and pulled him aside to the bar.  
  
“What’s wrong with you tonight?” he hissed. “You’re making me look like a fool in front of these people!” He couldn’t bear to think of the consequences. These were the cosmopolitan intellectuals of the town (aka the _only_ type of people Jun would consider to be his level when it came to conversation). What if one of them knew someone important? What if one of them _was_ someone important? He was fretting internally to no end.  
  
And that’s when he saw _him_ again.  
  
That Sakurai whatshisname tool. Arms crossed, ear pierced, and still smirking that same lopsided smirk from two weeks ago. Only this time, his hair had been dyed bright blonde and styled to fizz off his head in bursts of shaggy rays. He was also wearing faded jeans (which, upon closer inspection, did not look like they were even genuine denim) and a ripped tank top which was strategically tight around the abdomen and glinted with a small protrusion from around the umbilicus. Jun’s eyes widened when he realized what it was.  
  
_A navel piercing._  
  
God, but which poor parent was this guy trying to piss off?  
  
“So your name’s Jun.”  
  
_Curse Aiba and his yappy mouth_.  
  
“And _your_ name’s not on the guest list,” Jun answered crisply. “I should call security.”  
  
Infuriatingly, Sakurai chuckled. Aiba tilted the jar towards him hopefully.  
  
Jun snatched it out of his hands. Seriously, Aiba could be so _insipid_ sometimes. On the other side, Sakurai was still chuckling.  
  
“So you remembered my name,” he said, looking very pleased.  
  
And the next thing Jun knew, his hand was being taken and his sleeve pushed up (Gucci with Chanel cuff links, for crying out loud!), and then, in full view of all the metropolitan _chic_ of Tokyo, Sakurai Sho took out a marker, wet it at the tongue, and scrawled a thick phone number on Matsumoto Jun’s forearm.  
  
“Forget the jar.” He smiled, giving a brazen wink.  
  
Cheeks flaming, Jun pulled his arm back.  
  
He had never been more embarrassed in his life.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The fourth time Jun saw Sakurai Sho, he was out on the street with figurative springs on his Louboutins. The sun was bright, the winds were merry, and Matsumoto Jun had just signed his name to a deed that made him the proud owner of Ohno Satoshi’s famous set of plaster figurines. He was going to be the envy of his neighborhood, he was sure. This set had _all five_ of the three-foot caricatures, and each one had been decked with subtle hints of who the real life inspirations behind them were (rumor had it that one was modelled after none other than Ninomiya Kazunari, and Jun almost hyperventilated himself to a sweat when he saw the tiny galaxy in one of the squinty pupils; out came his checkbook, and boom; his blog followers were going to go _crazy_ for this).  
  
He gave himself a congratulatory grin as he sauntered over to where he’d parked his car.  
  
“Matsumoto Jun? Here’s your receipt. Have a good day.”  
  
He blinked. Five obscenely bulky boxes had just been dumped in front of his car, and the twerp who did it (the guy _had_ to be a gallery intern) was already disappearing behind a row of loaded trucks in the back, keys jingling irritatingly against a paint-spattered apron. Jun did not understand. Wasn’t there delivery service? What sort of gallery expected patrons to carry their _own_ purchases back with them, anyways? Surely—Jun sputtered as he noticed how they hadn’t even provided gift bags—surely an artist of Ohno Satoshi’s caliber could spare at least few underlings to help with the transportation and installation of his precious artpieces?  
  
_Customer service these days..._ Jun sniffed, taking care not to touch the cardboard to his cashmere blazer as he picked one box up and slid it into his trunk. The figurine inside was surprisingly heavy, and there was a noticeable slump in the floor of his car when he grimaced and let go. How was he supposed to fit five of these things in there?  
  
He stared distastefully at the remaining four boxes on the ground. One of them had a smear of wet paint on its side, probably from where someone’s dirty fingers had held it, and the others were all covered by a light layer of sawdust (which Jun knew from experience did _not_ show up well against Oxford blue cashmeres).  
  
“Well isn’t this just perfect,” he muttered, taking off his blazer with a huff.  
  
“I can hold that for you.” A hand materialized invitingly to his right, and Jun almost dropped his blazer (a Purple Label, no less!) when his eyes met the tawny stare of a very coolly disheveled Sakurai Sho.  
  
“I also have a car,” Sakurai offered innocently. “With an empty trunk.”  
  
In the cisterns of Jun’s mind, he could hear the first flutters of a white flag flapping. Damn, but how else was he supposed to get his new acquisitions home? His sister was on vacation and Aiba was out of town. And outside of those two, there was nobody who would be socially acceptable to call up in the middle of a Thursday morning like this (and yes, social acceptability still _mattered_ ).  
  
Jun fingered his car keys to buy himself time, and all the while, the fluttering white rose higher and higher.  
  
_I suppose beggars can’t be choosers_ , he finally grudged himself the acknowledgment.  
  
The locks behind his eyes swung open, and the change in his expression must have been so clear because Sakurai was upon him in an instant, grinning like a schoolboy and hoisting boxes with no care for the smears of paint that were now decorating his sleeve. It was quite remarkable, thought Jun, how much an earnest grin could transform a face from delinquent to downright neighborly.  
  
“You owe me one now,” he was telling Jun between boxes. “And I suppose you know what I want in return.”  
  
“I have an idea, yes.” Jun grumbled, but could not quite bring himself to offer a date and time. Not here, not like this, in the middle of a parking lot with sawdust milling in the air between them. Jun was a man of culture, after all. He needed time to ponder these consequential life choices.  
  
_Thump._ Sakurai dropped the boxes into a minivan two spaces down and looked back at him expectantly.  
  
“Well? Where should I—?”  
  
“ _One_ date.” Jun grit his teeth. He was actually going to do this. He couldn’t believe himself either, but he was actually agreeing to this, to going out (in _public_ , where people could _see_ ) with this bleach-headed, chain-sporting, double-hooding, skin-piercing _gorilla_ of a man. “You’ll have to comb your hair properly, of course, and wear a collared shirt and get a pair of real jeans.” He surveyed the glinting earring critically, and decided that with some imagination, it could be considered acceptable in the atmosphere of the Ginza bar he frequented.  
  
“Eight o’clock tomorrow,” he said, pulling out a calling card. “At Ginza Nine.”  
  
Sakurai Sho looked like Martians had just landed on Earth and were now performing a happy-dance around his eyes.  
  
“I’ll be there!” he said, leaping forth and clutching the card with both hands. “Appropriately dressed, I promise.” He laughed, and fiddled with the zipper on his top parka. “You might be surprised, Jun-kun, but I know a few things about fashion, too.”  
  
“Surprise me, then,” Jun replied drily and settled back in his car. “My address is on the card. But just follow me for now, okay?”  
  
“Yes,” Sakurai beamed, and Jun put his sunglasses on so that he wouldn’t have to look directly at him. “You know, I think we’re going to get along.”  
  
Jun snorted, but Sakurai didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy fumbling for his phone to enter in the contact details.  
  
“You should get in your car,” Jun said impatiently. “And keep up.”  
  
With surprising docility, Sakurai obeyed, and Jun backed out of the lot, smiling.  
  
Some obscene rap music began blaring from his radio, but with a laugh, Jun tapped his wheel to the beat, and didn’t bother changing the channel.  
  
_Maybe there’s hope for Sakurai, after all._  
  
He snorted again and checked his rearview mirror.  
  
_I guess we’ll see about tomorrow._  
  
His smile broadened as the light turned green, and without any hesitation, he stepped on the gas.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~`  
  
  
End


End file.
